The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart: — ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness — the nausea — The pitiless pain — Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain — With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain.

And oh! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated — the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst: — I have drank of a water That quenches all thirst: —

Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very few Feet under ground — From a cavern not very far Down under ground.

And ah! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed; For man never slept In a different bed — And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes,Forgetting, or never Regretting, its roses — Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies — A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies — With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie — Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed,And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast — Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm,And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm — To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed,(Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead — And I rest so contentedly, Now in my bed (With her love at my breast). That you fancy me dead — That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead: —

But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie — It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie — With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.